Giving Back: Jim Beebe-Woodard and Richard Cardillo

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Welcome to the Moth Podcast.

I'm Leanne Gulley, your host for this episode and Director of Development at the Moth.

As a fundraiser, I think a lot about the concept of giving back, about what we can and should do as members of a community, how we can make sure that the things we value continue to have a place in the world.

whether that's through volunteering, showing kindness to the people around us, or supporting the organizations we care about.

Today, we're going to share two stories that examine this idea and look at what we get when we give back.

And we'll tell you a little bit about how you can help support the moth in its mission to create community and build empathy around the world.

First up, we have Jim B.B.

Woodard.

He told this story at a Burlington, Vermont Story Slam where the theme of the night was love hurts.

Here's Jim, live at the moth.

So as an adult here, I would characterize myself as a devout atheist.

But as a kid, I did grow up going to church.

And we went to a really nice church, actually.

It

wasn't super dogmatic, and it was really invested in like families and doing good in the community and kind of all the things church should do.

And one of the ways that our church did that was there was always some sort of food drive going on, canned food drive kind of thing.

And very often we would have a Sunday where all the kids in

the congregation would have some sort of canned good.

And at some point

during the service, the kids would come up onto the chancel in front of the sanctuary and they would have their canned goods and they put it in a box and the minister would bless it and it was all nice and it was a nice way for kids to learn a little bit about giving and taking care of others in the community.

And so for a lot of years when I was really young, my folks would just give us something and we'd go up and we'd put it in the box and that was that and it was all good.

So as we got a little older, my sister and I, there was a Sunday where my dad said, hey, why don't you guys go into the pantry and why don't you pick something?

Why don't you pick something that you'd like to give to another family in need?

And we're like, all right, so we go in.

This is the late 70s, it's suburbia.

We have a wall of canned goods and mac and cheese and my dad's old spice.

And so

I'm looking at all these canned goods and going through it.

And I see there's a can of mandarin oranges.

And I was like, all about mandarin oranges.

I loved them so much.

I had to open them up, eat the whole can.

It was so good.

So I kind of like slid that to the side.

And so I'm going through, going through, and I come upon this honkin can of veg-all.

Now if you don't know what vegal is, it's this really horrible cut vegetables.

Canned vegetables aren't all that delicious anyway, they're really salty and everything.

But vegal was particularly disgusting and it had lima beans and we just hated vegal.

So I was like, yup.

And so I grabbed the vegal.

And meanwhile, my sister is having her own parallel process and she's like, I've got creamed corn.

And that was the thing she hated the most.

So out we go.

I've got my veg all.

My sister's got her creamed corn.

We're like,

and

my parents are putting their coats on for church, and my dad says, okay, did you pick something out?

I said, yeah, yeah.

He said, oh, okay.

That's what you want to bring to the families?

And I said, come, okay.

So we go to church, go through the whole thing, put it in the box,

gets blessed by the minister.

That's all good.

This is the time in our life where Sundays were very much a family day for us.

And so typically after church, my grandparents would come over and we would have some sort of like brunchy thing with pancakes and eggs and stuff and just spend time together as a family.

But this particular Sunday was what my mom liked to call a Sunday dinner Sunday.

And this was something she liked to do every couple months or whatever.

And Sunday dinner Sundays, just what it sounds like, around 12, 30, 1 o'clock, we had a Sunday dinner.

And so it was usually sort of, you know, more food and you'd stay in your church clothes and it was all that stuff.

So this particular Sunday of the aforementioned Veg-all creamed corn was a Sunday dinner Sunday.

And we get back to the house house.

And my mom had left a roast chicken in the oven when we left, so the house smells so good.

And there's chicken in the oven and all this stuff.

And Nan and Pops get there, and we're all psyched.

And

we sit down to have dinner, and

my mom puts the chicken down, and it's steaming, it's so yummy.

And I'm waiting, I'm waiting.

And the rule was, of course, you don't touch anything, you don't serve yourself, you don't even talk about serving yourself until everyone's sitting at the table.

And my parents are still kind of buzzing around doing their thing.

And everybody's sitting down.

My dad's finishing up, and he brings over over the last two dishes.

And

I'm so predictable.

So

he comes over, and my sister gets a plate of cream corn.

I get a plate of veg all.

For every test, there is a corresponding lesson.

Sometimes the test comes before the lesson.

And sometimes the lesson is crystal clear.

And so very clearly, my sister and I were like, oh, man.

And the funny thing was with my folks,

this wasn't a punishment.

It wasn't like we were shamed a whole bunch and everything.

And they set it down.

And my dad said, like, you know, you thought this was good enough to give to somebody else.

Is this what you want?

And it was like,

you know, so he was right.

So I didn't want it.

So we ate the veg, all, we ate the corn corn, no chicken.

No, but it was okay.

It was okay.

I mean, it was awful, but it was okay.

This really is, though,

a lesson and a test that I have carried through my life.

Perhaps not so literally, a little more metaphorically,

but

and I definitely encourage you to think of this as a test you can lay over your own life.

You can use VegAl if you like, but

am I giving out what I wish to receive back?

And whether it's my words or my deeds or my actions, my interactions with my friends, my family, what do I do at work, you know, am I doling out veg all?

Or am I giving you my mandarin oranges?

Thanks.

That was Jim B.B.

Woodard.

Jim is a Connecticut native and a 1989 graduate of the Greater Hartford Academy of the Arts.

After attending UMass Boston, he spent the 1990s in Boston working in nonprofit organizations providing advocacy and support to people living with HIV and addiction.

He now lives a very quiet life in the woods of Vermont with his husband Travis.

Jim's story reminds me so much of my childhood.

From a very young age, I was lucky to have the chance to experience the power of giving back.

My grandfather ran the local community center where I grew up, and whether it was helping to work bingo or serving meals at a spaghetti dinner, I saw the deep value in human connection, helping others, and having the chance to tell your story.

This all feels deeply connected to the work I do at the Moth.

While most folks know the Moth through its podcast, radio hour, and live events, there is so much work that happens behind the scenes to bring the transformative power of storytelling all over the world.

Each year, through our education, community engagement, and global programs, the Moth helps individuals feel seen, find their confidence, advocate for themselves, conquer their fears, and so much more.

If the transformative power of storytelling has impacted you or you would like to ensure it impacts others, please make a donation to the Moth today.

Text GIVE23-278679 to make a fully tax-deductible donation and help ensure our continued work to nurture empathy and build community.

Text GIVE23-278679 to GIVE Today.

And just a reminder, while we are huge fans of all of our public radio partners, funds raised through their giving drives go to support their programming.

Give Today directly to the Moth.

We're an independent nonprofit, and the support we get helps to ensure the future of our work.

Our next story also touches on how giving back can heal and build community.

Richard Cardillo told this at a New York main stage where the theme of the night was This Way Up.

Here's Richard, live at the Moth.

It's August of 1991 and I'm living in this tiny little sublet in the East Village.

I just turned 33 and this is the first time in my life I'm living in a place of my own.

And I'm feeling pretty lost and pretty lonely.

I had recently left a Catholic monastery where I had lived as a monk with a vow of celibacy.

I kind of picked that vocation because I felt I was always drawn to a life of service, but even more importantly,

at the age of 16, I figured out that I was gay.

One night, about three weeks after I moved in, I went to make dinner and I realized I had no food in the house and I had no money.

So I obsessively kept checking the cabinets in the kitchen for anything.

And all I kept coming up with was this half bag of white flour, a little bit of salt, and in the far reaches of the top cabinet, interspersed with all the soy sauce and ketchup packets, was this little packet of yeast.

I looked at the side of the flour bag and followed the directions, and I made bread.

That began a decades-long passion, and I threw myself into this passion with a vengeance.

I soon was making so much bread that I couldn't eat it myself, and I started giving it away to family, to friends, to my colleagues, students and their families and I started to feel really, really good about myself.

So much so that on one Saturday night I decided to venture out and try my luck at meeting a guy.

And

I ended up at the car wash.

The car wash was the nickname for the back room of a really seedy, sleazy bar called a Spike in the West Village.

It had these ceiling-to-floor plastic strips, just like a car wash, that separated it from the bar area.

So there I am in the back with my arms crossed, feeling so afraid and just scared witless.

All of a sudden, this handsome guy comes near me.

He has the most beautiful long brown hair and these piercing blue eyes.

And he comes up next to me and he goes to reach out and I flinch and I jump.

And in the most beautiful southern draw, which I never learned how to imitate,

he said, ah, precious, what in God's green earth are you so afraid of?

That's how I met Peter.

We talked a little bit more, went to the bar.

He kept buying me beer after beer and just drawing me out of myself.

He was just so easy to talk to, and he showed such interest in me.

He then guided me onto the dance floor.

And even while we were dancing, he was talking away and listening intently on everything I had to say.

And he finally asked me that question, want to come home with me?

And I got afraid.

And I started making excuses.

Nah, you live on Avenue B, too far away, too dangerous.

I got to work tomorrow.

And he gave me this big hug to stop me.

And he drew me in.

He said, oh, precious, take a chance on me.

The next morning, I woke up super early to sneak the hell out of there and I go into his living room and there he is completely dressed and he was insisting on escorting me back to my apartment.

Well, that clinched it.

I was smitten.

We dated for about four months and then right after that, I moved in with him.

Pete was this force of nature.

He was this ardent activist and he'd protest for so many different causes.

No nukes, a cleaner environment, the war machine to dismantle it, anything.

He was out on those front lines protesting and marching and he would take me along with him and I started to feel so alive when we did this.

And he wanted to make the center of our relationship hospitality.

So once a week we'd have this communal meal in our apartment where we'd invite family, friends, and the centerpiece of all those meals was the bread.

And we'd share with each other and we'd care with each other and I'd look at all of this going on.

And I reflected on how my life had changed.

And I'm wondering, how the hell did I end up here?

And I loved it.

One

time, about four years into our relationship, all of a sudden Pete got a bad case of pneumonia.

Then he'd develop neuropathy in both his legs.

And quickly after that, he started losing his eyesight.

We sort of saw the handwriting on the wall.

He tested, and sure enough, he tested positive for the HIV-AIDS virus.

And he was convinced he was going to fight this to stay healthy.

I tried to take Pete the best way I knew how.

But soon AIDS was affecting his mental health as well.

He had this horrible opportunistic opportunistic infection known as toxoplasmosis.

It leaves these lesions and scars on your brain in the areas that affect mood.

And he was sinking into these deep, deep depressions.

And he was cycling in and out of psychiatric institutions.

On a sweltering hot August day in 2012, I get ready for work.

I give Pete this prolonged kiss goodbye.

I leave and go to work.

and about noon I look at my cell phone and he's calling me and I answer it and I hear all this wind and all this traffic and I just said, Pete, where the hell are you?

And he said, listen, Richard, just wanted to call and let you know how very much I love you.

And he hung up.

I didn't feel good about that phone call.

So much so that I decided to go home and wait for him there.

And about three hours after that,

two police officers

were at my front door

and they informed me that Pete had decided to jump from the George Washington Bridge.

When Pete took his life, a big chunk of me

died with him.

I just stopped relating to the world.

I stopped working.

I didn't want to see family or friends.

I became a hermit in my own apartment.

I was just this hollow, solitary shell.

About four months later, on this frigid, cold December morning, I wake up to make some food for myself and I realize I have no food in the house.

So, for the first time in over six months,

I made bread.

And I must have had the old habits in my mind because I made a lot of bread.

I made eight baguettes.

And I ate the tip off of one and looked at the rest of them and knew they were going to go stale.

So the next morning, I forced myself to put on my winter jacket, trudge through the snow, go up Stanton Street to the Bowery Mission.

I go inside the front door, and automatically, the guy at the front desk puts his hand up.

He said, sorry, Department of Health rules.

We cannot accept food donations from anybody.

I turn around to leave, walk over to the park on Stanton.

I turned around and I realized four guys followed me out from the Bowery mission.

One of them comes right up to me and he locks eyes with me and he points at me and he asked, you got bread?

I opened the satchel with the baguettes, took them out.

I broke the bread, gave it to each one of these men, and they devoured it without saying a word.

I get up to leave.

That same man locks eyes with me again, looks straight at me, and asks, you coming back?

The next Sunday, I made eight sourdough loaves.

And I bring them into the park, and they're already waiting for me.

And this week, there was more talking, and there was more sharing.

People were connecting with their bread memories.

One guy said, I remember living down south, and my grandma would make this cornbread and a skillet in the oven.

I said, well, I make cornbread.

I'll make for you that next week.

Another guy said, I'd run home to get there before sundown on the Sabbath and I'd rip off a piece of a chala and eat it.

And I said, well, I make chala bread.

I'll make that next week for you too as well.

In the ensuing weeks, there were an awful lot more bread requests.

And my moniker became breadman.

in the ensuing five months we started talking and laughing and sharing more than bread

and I

started to heal I became lighter

I went back to work

I started seeing family and friends again

I even started laughing

And it felt so good to be with a group again.

But I'll tell you what the real miracle was.

In the course of the five months,

we had created this wondrous sharing, giving, and life-affirming community.

And Pete,

he would have loved it.

Thank you.

That was Richard Cardillo.

Richard is a lifelong resident of the Lower East Side in Manhattan and has been an educator and ardent activist for over four decades.

He still considers himself more of a learner than a teacher, but always a storyteller.

Richard is also a six-time Moth Story Slam winner.

If you'd like to see photos of the bread Richard baked, go to themoth.org/slash extras.

That's all for this episode.

Remember, if you want to help support the MOF's mission, text GIV23-278679 to make a fully tax-deductible donation and help ensure our continued work to nurture empathy and build community.

And a special shout out to our Moth members and donors who have already made a commitment to help advance our mission.

From all of us here at the Moth, thank you for listening and thank you for giving back in whatever way you can.

Leanne Gelly is the Director of Development at the Moth and has 20 years of experience fundraising for non-profits, including many theaters in the off-Broadway community.

She currently resides in the East Village with her husband and two children and is always on the search for the city's best pasta.

Richard Cardillo's story was directed by Larry Rosen.

This episode of the Moth podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Janess, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Solinger.

The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tullers, Marina Cluche, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant Walker, Leanne Gulley, and Aldi Casa.

All moth stories are true, as remembered by the storytellers.

For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.

The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at PRX.org.